


Dead Witch Mum

by alexandritemoon



Category: Fleabag (TV), Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Harry Potter AU, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:21:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22952476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexandritemoon/pseuds/alexandritemoon
Summary: After the death of her best friend, Fleabag continues to run her toad-themed café in Hogsmeade. One day her sister sends over some Ministry bigwigs, an Unspeakable among them.aka Fleabag/HP crossover. Oneshot, probably. Fleabag/Priest? you know it.
Relationships: Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	Dead Witch Mum

At ten o’clock, the woman sometimes known as Fleabag was sprawled sideways and half-naked on the mattress above Hilary’s Café, wand cast to one side and robes strewn across the forgiving armchair that took up a large portion of the room. She was beginning to stir. An owl clattered at the window and began a familiar, pointed pattern of tapping. 

“Fuck, alright,” she mumbled through her mild hangover. “I’m coming. No need to get your knickers in a twist.” Not that owls have knickers, though she briefly wished they did. Jesus Christ, imagine the Great Hall at breakfast, negligees and boxers flung into the morning porridge. Make for a very interesting first-year experience, that. She made it to the window without tripping over anything and Thomasine the owl stuck out her little foot and handed her a letter.

It was from Claire, though not on Ministry parchment. She wouldn’t dare dip into the Ministry’s precious supply for a personal matter.

_Hello_ , it read,

_I have recently been given the task of finding an appropriate place in Hogsmeade for the professors to organize a meeting with the Dept. of Mysteries. Out of convenience, and because I hope business is going well, I have recommended your café. The Headmistress and others shall be arriving at Hilary’s at 12 sharp and it would be prudent to reserve a_ _spot for them. There will be several very important officials there, so please try not to muck it up. Just serve them tea and smile and maybe talk about your school days a bit. Don’t go poking your nose into Ministry business and for the love of God, don’t go... fraternizing with any of the officials. Please.  
Hope all is well. Martin and Jake send their regards.   
Best, Claire_

Fleabag could spend all day dissecting the letter for a laugh (“Martin and Jake send their regards”? What was this, the Italian mafia?) but it was rapidly approaching half past ten and the café didn’t have a single chair on the floor. She dressed quickly in a striped shirt and sensible shoes, swiped on a pop of lipstick in an attempt at sexiness, and hurried down the stairs to the tiny shop she had opened with her best friend, Boo.

Boo was dead now. Fleabag supposed she knew a lot of dead people, maybe more than average. Boo was dead, for starters, and so was her mum. She was certain some of her old school friends had bit it by now, probably the ones who wanted to be Aurors or something exceedingly dangerous like that. Wizards did live longer than other people, but most of the wizards she knew had a way of flinging themselves into Death’s path. Whether or not it was her fault, she thought, bile rising in her throat, was an entirely different matter.

The wizarding world had fucked with her conception of mortality. It was one thing, as a witch, to handle a potion ingredient like Doxy wings and know that it came from a living being that could think thoughts. It was another thing to be told, like she had as a child, that not even magic could bring something back from the dead. And it was another thing entirely to see someone after the light had gone out of their eyes, to touch their wand after they had gone. She had thought that they were the same thing.

How fucking wrong she had been. How utterly, completely, fucking wrong.

She forced herself to get it together. It was barely eleven and she could already feel a thin layer of sweat building on her palms. 

Hilary the toad croaked happily from her glass cage. At least somebody was having a good time, she thought, levitating the sandwiches to their displays. 

Hilary had it so damn easy. Life as a toad would be much simpler. All she would have to do would be hop around and eat crickets, plus she would have a permanent position as the odd yet lovable mascot of a somewhat struggling café. Maybe her Animagus form would be a toad, if she ever bothered to try.

“You’re incorrigible,” she said to Hilary, eliciting a complacent _ribbit_. “Sod off,” she replied. Oh, Christ. She totally was going insane.

* * *

The Headmistress did indeed arrive at 12 sharp. Trailing her was Professor Flitwick, who gave a little wave, Professor Slughorn, and a few others she vaguely recognized as teachers of electives she hadn’t taken. There were also a few sharply-dressed wizards- Ministry types, by the look of them- and an Unspeakable wearing an odd sort of dog collar like those she had seen on Muggle priests.

“Hilary’s Café,” read Professor Slughorn off of the DAILY SPECIALS chalkboard, and she idly wondered if it had taken a special stroke of genius for him to figure it out.

“Wonderful to see you, my girl! Always a pleasure,” he said, his eyes sweeping the framed photo where she and Boo rested, laughing, on the big armchair upstairs. “You always were a dab hand at Potions! Minerva, she’s opened a café with that girl from Hufflepuff in her year! Wonderful, brilliant, I say.”

Fleabag knew very well she had not been a dab hand at potions. Claire had, and so had Boo, but she had had Boo as her partner for six years. So she simply smiled and nodded and said, “Wonderful to see you as well, sir. Would you like anything to eat or drink?” She realized she had forgotten to put the specials up and reached for her wand.

“I wouldn’t mind a bit of Firewhisky, myself,” said the man in the dog collar, rubbing his nose suspiciously.

“Now, now,” said Professor Slughorn, as the Ministry officials tutted. “It’s a bit early for that, my boy!”

“I know, Horace. Just joking. Just joking. I’ll have black tea, two sugars.”

She took their orders and got to it. As she was handing them out (“a black tea for you, sir, two sugars, biscuits for you, Headmistress-“) McGonagall grabbed her arm. It was not painful, but it was urgent, and she skidded ungracefully to a stop with the empty tea tray.

“Were you informed?” asked McGonagall. “We need somewhere private to speak. Rather private, if you don’t mind, where I can place the appropriate charms.”

Fuck, Fleabag thought, Claire must be pretty high up if she’s directing these clandestine types of meetings here. It gave her a little thrill, like being in a spy novel. “I was not informed, Headmistress. But there is a back room with a table that I think will be large enough. If I can just-“ She magicked a few chairs into the room, removed the hideous doilies left by the former proprietor and they were all set.

“Perfect,” said McGonagall, leading her party into the room for what was in all likelihood a very boring bureaucratic meeting. Sure. Hot Unspeakable caught her eye on the way in. Boy, she was beginning to want to do unspeakable things to him.

* * *

The hours dragged on. Two turned into four, and still the important types stayed holed up in the back room, arguing and arguing about something. Fleabag was humming a tune when shethought she heard crashing from the back and nearly dropped the cricket she was feeding Hilary.

She cautiously made her way out to the side patio, wand in her trembling hand. Maybe it was secretly a set-up. Maybe the Ministry officials were extorting Slughorn and the other professors were there as backup. Whatever the situation, she would not tolerate the breaking of her very cheap and easily replaceable china. This was a nice café for civil, high-class wizards and witches. She was also broke.

The back was, as usual, mostly deserted, save for the Unspeakable dressed like a priest. He was sprawled out on the cobblestone with a broken bottle in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. “Fuck,” he moaned. “It got away.”

“What got away?” asked Fleabag, mentally cataloguing the moan for the private time she would spend on the mattress upstairs.

“The fucking fox,” he spit. “Bastard always gets away. I’m beginning to lose my mind. No one else in Love has anything to deal with like that.”

“You’re in love?”

“Oh, shit. Wasn’t supposed to tell you.” He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “Not in love, like, love love. Love’s my department. The Department of Mysteries. I work in Love Magic. Mysteries of the heart and soul, stuff that rips the world apart. Shouldn’t tell anyone.” He mimed zipping his lips shut and throwing away the key, and Fleabag did the same. He was funny, this Unspeakable. She found herself wishing he would stick around.

“Are they still in there arguing?”

“Yeah. It’s about the inclusion of a certain mystery in the advanced curriculum. No one wants to budge. I was sitting there falling asleep, I heard you humming, and then the fox spirit manifested, and now here we are. Oh, fuck, you weren’t supposed to know it’s a spirit.”

“I’m forgetting it already. Look, a pretty butterfly.”

He laughed, dusting himself off. “I’m sure you want to go back in there? Let me-“

“Nah, it’s terribly boring stuff. The walls would be pretty thin if Minerva hadn’t put up enough Silencing Charms from our side to snuff out a small orchestra. It’s all very confidential.”

“I love a man of mystery.”

“I love a woman of culture. It was one of my favorite things you were humming.”

“Just a song I heard outside a church. Thought it might be an appropriate soundtrack to the priest thing.”

“That’s just my cover for my research.”

“So are you a man of God, or not?”

“I’m a wizard. Can’t we all part water, make bread appear, that sort of thing?” His eyes were teasing her, a challenge.

“Really don’t know too much about priests, but I’m not sure that’s their exact job.”

“I wanted to be a priest,” he said. “I had a crisis of faith at eleven years old.”

  
“Oh, so, Muggle-born then.”

“Yeah. Both parents. And you? I think I know you. I definitely know your sister. Claire, right?”

“Yeah.” Of course he knew Claire. Claire was Prefect, Head Girl, and Gobstones Club President. She would’ve gone out for Quidditch too, but she had a horrible fear of flying. Fleabag was actually somewhat surprised she hadn’t conquered it, like everything else, for the sake of her CV.

“Your parents?”

“Oh, yeah. Muggle dad, actually. And a witch mum. Well, a dead witch mum.” 

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Oh, no, it’s no big deal. It’s fine. She died of- magical accident. It was a while ago, actually.”

“I know lots of people who died like that,” he said, and suddenly it got very quiet. 

“Do you- do you want to go get a drink sometime?” she asked. She was getting rusty with the flirting and hoped it didn’t come off wrong as she tried to make her eyes say what her mouth couldn’t. _Please fuck me, Hot Unspeakable._

“Sure, but I can’t come home with you afterwards.”

“Why?”

“Research.”

Damn.

**Author's Note:**

> This was fun. I’m still super obsessed with Fleabag, and writing them is very hard, but I’ve always wanted to do a Harry Potter AU. Constructive criticism is welcome. Comment below what house you think Fleabag is in!


End file.
